The End of Innocence
by Charity Angel
Summary: Sam said yes, the world is ending. But even as it tears families apart, the apocalypse is bringing people together in order to survive. (End-verse fic)
1. Prologue: Flight from Illinois

_A/N: This is my first go at a multi-part Supernatural. Anyone familiar with my work in other fandoms know that me posting a multi-part that I haven't yet finished is dangerous, but I'm tweaking the damned thing to death. And given that Chapters 1-4 are already pretty much ready to go, I thought I'd start posting for my own sanity. I am intending to post on Tuesdays and Fridays, but you know me better than that. I may slow down to once a week if the next few chapters don't cooperate as well._

_This is an End-verse fic. It will be angsty. It is __**not**__ a nice world they are in. The rating is pretty much guaranteed to go up to at least a 'T' eventually. There may or may not also be things happen off-camera that are potentially triggery in a few chapters time._

_Enjoy?_

* * *

><p>It started in Chicago. Actually, the rumours say it started in Detroit, but for the residents of Illinois, it started in Chicago. The city went nuts suddenly, and the stories started flying about a zombie apocalypse. Of course, everyone ignored it, until the local news stations stopped broadcasting. Chicago dropped off the radar completely. The CDC investigated, but no-one ever heard from the team of doctors and epidemiologists again.<p>

When the broadcasts stopped, her mom packed their bags. Joliet was too close to Chicago for comfort, and with talk coming in from Michigan about Detroit, they decided to head away from the security of the city, and back to Pontiac. They spent the next night in their old house, both of them curled up in the big bed, and in the morning, her mom loaded a salt shaker and a little bottle of holy water into her purse before they went out for groceries.

Possession had left its mark on both of them: given them a greater, unwanted understanding of the truth about the world around them. They both knew the apocalypse was nigh, they just never spoke of it, and instead armed themselves against the supernatural. They both knew how to combat demons, although killing one was beyond them. They didn't hunt, not like the Winchesters, but every door and every window in their houses was lined with salt. They regularly fed each other holy water to reassure themselves and each other they weren't possessed.

It was a crappy way to live, but it was what their lives had been reduced to.

They stocked up on groceries: mostly non-perishable items. Tins and the like that wouldn't go off, but they bought some bread to enjoy for now. Rock salt was another necessity. Then they rounded up everyone that would listen, everyone that didn't think that they were murderers, or protecting her dad. They persuaded them that whatever was happening was coming for them. Pontiac was too close: the newspapers were already reporting people acting strangely in Kenosha, Aurora and Joliet.

.oOo.

They started out as a motorcade, a rag-tag mob of church-goers in every kind of vehicle, packed to the gills with essentials. Some had tents and sleeping bags, enough to share. Some had guns and rifles. A lot had kids, who couldn't understand. Their parents were trying to make it like an adventure, but it wasn't easy, trying to hide their worry, lying about why they weren't at school. It was even more difficult with no fixed destination: they just wanted to stay ahead of whatever was coming for them, leaving tales of devastated cities behind them, trying to pick up anyone who would listen to them as they passed through towns.

Her mom nearly cried when the cell towers gave out, even though the number she had desperately been calling wasn't being answered. It was at that point she made a decision. The day their lives had changed again, they had been given an address, a man in South Dakota who would be able to help them. Hopefully, anyway. There were no stories coming in from Iowa, Nebraska or the Dakotas, although some of the south west coast was hit too with this mysterious disease. Bigger cities were worst hit. So, after some discussion, they decided to head to the state border. And that's where they were stopped. A road block stopped them crossing into Iowa, and the National Guard manning the block informed them that the whole of Illinois was under quarantine.

The adults convened for a meeting, a few miles back down the road. They all agreed they needed to get out of the state, before they too succumbed to whatever this disease was. They had been fortunate so far; leaving things behind them, but they were all aware they couldn't be that lucky. Something was bound to happen sooner or later, and the sooner they could put Illinois behind them, the later it would be. Hopefully after they were able to reach Sioux Falls.

Decisions were made in that meeting: there were enough people with common sense to be able to foresee what would happen eventually. There would come a time when they had to abandon their vehicles and continue on foot. It would make sneaking across state lines much easier. It wouldn't help them now, granted, given that Illinois' entire western border was the impassable Mississippi, but to cross from Iowa into South Dakota, if the border there was closed, it would definitely help. The eight miles from the border to Sioux Falls didn't seem insurmountable on foot, especially if they could cover the four hundred miles between here and there by car.

They spent the rest of the day doing whatever they needed to in order to prepare for their future on the run. They headed back into Monmouth and hit the camping goods stores. Those with working credit cards bought rucksacks and decent boots for anyone without. They bought maps and compasses and flashlights. They traded elderly tents for lighter, more portable ones. They hit up ATMs and withdrew as much cash as they could.

Then, after a quick discussion, they headed north. They weren't risking trying to cross at the same bridge, on Route 34: a smaller bridge seemed like a better plan. Heading to the next crossing was risky, rather than several away, but going any further put them back onto the highways, and into cities they would be better off avoiding.

.oOo.

All in all, the crossing into Muscatine, Iowa could have gone worse: they had taken the guards by surprise at night, and most of the vehicles had gotten through. Father McKinley, alone in his car, had volunteered to be at the back of the convoy, with next-to no supplies. He had gone into this pretty much knowing he was going to be captured. He and the Davenports weren't with them when they finally came to a stop five miles out of Muscatine. Pastor David and his wife Jane, who were friends from Pontiac, told them that Father McKinley had at least been alive when the guards had dragged him from his car. Pastor David quickly and efficiently changed the shot-out tyre for the spare, discarding the ruined rim at the side of the road: extra weight they couldn't afford to carry, space they could use for supplies instead.

In the morning, having camped in an isolated field, the radio announced that Des Moines was under quarantine. They adjusted their route to miss it by a good margin, but less than an hour later, Cedar Rapids was the same: cases of the mystery illness reported. Iowa took no chances and banned all vehicular movement except for emergency services across the state. It wasn't worth getting shot at again, they reasoned, and abandoned the cars, packing up everything they could take.

It was two days later they had their first encounter with what they would eventually come to know, along with the rest of the world, as 'Croats'.


	2. Chapter 1: Camp Chitaqua

Claire had only just managed to slip off to sleep, curled in her clothes inside her sleeping bag, huddled in with her tent-mates to stave off the biting chill of the October air, when the noise startled her back to full alertness. After three weeks without the noise of a single engine, it took her a moment to place it. Someone was driving. That meant someone human: the zombies weren't smart enough to figure out how to turn the ignition. Or it meant demon.

She struggled to free herself from the confines of the bag, and felt Jane doing the same beside her. Bright lights shone through the wall of their tent, and they could hear the voices of the men on watch calling out. They stumbled out to find a truck approaching them slowly, and Claire breathed a sigh of relief: humans. Castiel had left her with one gift, and she was certain he was not supposed to have done it, but she could still see a demon's true face underneath its borrowed skin. He hadn't had time to explain it to her, but Claire was sure he felt bad about putting them in danger, drawing demons to them, and he had given her and her mother a chance to protect themselves rather than being caught unawares. Given that this was the end of the world, she hadn't felt the need to hide her ability from the rag-tag band of Illinois refugees (although there were more than a few Iowans amongst their number now), and they had come to trust her. It was probably the reason they allowed her to sit a watch with the adults at night, even though Kirsty, a whole year older than her, didn't.

"They're human," she assured the men.

"How'd you know that?" The guy sitting shotgun in the truck demanded, sticking his head out.

Claire shrugged. That was one secret she wasn't giving up: in a world like this, stories of possession weren't going to go down well. "Just know."

"Rufus, be nice," the driver scolded. "She's just a kid."

'Rufus', a middle-aged black guy, leaned out, holding flask. "Then she won't mind taking a sip of this."

Claire dutifully took and sipped the holy water, returning the flask. "You ever thought about mixing salt in?" she asked. "Go for the twofer?"

"Don't go down the hatch so well if you're human," Rufus said, his dark eyes gleaming at her, softening around the edges. "It's nice and smooth as it is. So, where you folks from?"

"Illinois, mostly," Jane, their _de facto_ leader said, coming up behind Claire and placing a protective hand on her shoulder. "Joliet, Pontiac, Peoria, Monmouth. Picked up a few from Muscatine and Cedar Rapids."

They had lost more than they had picked up, but Rufus seemed to understand that. "You headed anywhere in particular?"

There was a moment of hesitation before Jane answered. "South Dakota. I'm told there's a guy there who knows about this Armageddon crap, might be able to help us."

Rufus looked stunned for a moment, and his driver seemed to choke on something. "You talking about Bobby Singer?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, he ain't in Sioux Falls any more," Rufus told them. "Sioux Falls is gone. Where'd you find out about him, anyway?"

Claire stepped forward. She hadn't told anyone else this yet, not even Jane. "From Sam and Dean Winchester. They told me and my mom that if we ever got in trouble, we could count on him."

"How many of you are there?" the driver asked, leaning over to peer out at them. He was younger, white, bearded.

"Thirty-three," Jane answered promptly.

"Okay, wait here. We'll be back with some empty trucks in a couple hours," the driver said. "We'll take you to Dean and Bobby. I'm Chuck, by the way. Chuck Shurley, and this is Rufus Turner."

"Doctor Jane Wainwright," Jane responded, leaning in to shake Chuck's hand, then Rufus'. "You sound like you're organised."

"We've got a safe place, near Storm Lake," Rufus said. "It's not much, but it's a hell of a lot better than, well, this. We'll be back for you and then you, kid…"

"Claire."

"Claire, you can tell us how you know the Winchesters."

.oOo.

It took a little over an hour for them to reach Camp Chitaqua, warm for the first time in weeks on the school bus Rufus had stolen to transport them in. Chuck and Jody, the sheriff of Sioux Falls before it had been overrun, quietly filled the adults in on what had happened, about the Croatoan virus and the demons, about Lucifer and the apocalypse. The camp, she told them, was an abandoned summer camp. It was still a work in progress, Jody said, but it was getting there. They had catering facilities and clean, running water. Sometimes, the water was even warm. They had roofs over their heads, and that was what was important. They had enough space to accommodate everyone, but they would probably have to do chores around the camp. Everyone was okay with that idea.

Jane broached the idea of a medical facility. Chuck told them that there was a first aid cabin in the camp, but it wasn't used for much given that the hunters' version of medicine was dental floss and whiskey for both antiseptic and painkiller. "Talk to Cas when we get there," he said. "He'll get the cabin sorted out, and maybe some staff if you need them, and I can get you supplies."

Claire held her breath at the name. Surely, if Dean Winchester and Bobby Singer were at this place, then 'Cas' could only be one person. Chuck met her eye briefly and nodded. So, he knew who she was. Weird. The only time anyone had ever known who she was had been when she moved to Joliet and been the new kid at school. That seemed like a lifetime ago now.

When they finally pulled to a stop at the camp, Chuck caught Claire's arm before she could alight.

"People don't know what Castiel is," he said quickly. "Dean and Bobby think it would cause a panic, given the whole possession thing."

Claire nodded her understanding. "That's why I haven't told them why I can see demons," she confided.

"Cas did that? Huh. I didn't see that. Oh, I'm a prophet," he said, seeing her puzzled expression. "I used to get visions of what Sam and Dean were up to. I was writing the 'Winchester Gospel'. I wrote about you, when Castiel got taken back to Heaven." He gave a soft snort of bitter laughter and shook his head. "Sometimes, I wish I still got the visions, so we could see where things were safe, or how we could stop this."

"Claire?"

Jane's voice carried the length of the empty bus.

"Sorry, I'm coming." She turned to head out, but something suddenly hit her. "Oh, crap. Jane? Can you, um, give us a hand with this?"

Jane frowned. "Sure, sweetie."

"Jane knows Dad," Claire hissed at Chuck. "She's from Pontiac."

"Oh, that's just perfect," Chuck groaned. "What are you going to tell her?"

"The truth. The short version."

.oOo.

"Doctor Wainwright?"

Claire watched Jane's eyes widen as Castiel stepped up into the bus. Claire understood, remembered what this was like; seeing someone you know, but didn't know at all. Castiel didn't walk the same as her dad did, or speak the same way, but those eyes had been the ones that had held hers convincingly as he told her bedtime stories; those lips had been the ones to kiss her goodnight, the arms that had held her tightly when she was scared of the monster in her closet, had carried her when she broke her leg that time when she was six. She was kind of glad her mom wasn't here; she wouldn't have managed seeing this.

"The rest of your people have been assigned cabins," Castiel said bluntly. "I thought it might be prudent for you to see the first aid facilities now. You can ask me anything you like once there."

Jane nodded wordlessly, and Castiel shifted his gaze. His eyes softened. "Claire. I am glad you are here."

She rushed to hug him. "Me too, Castiel. I'm glad you're safe."

"I'll, er, sort the new supplies," Chuck said, sounding uncomfortable.

Claire released Castiel, and followed him from the bus, Jane catching them up and sticking to Claire's side like glue. Fortunately, it was only a short walk to the first aid cabin, which was looking somewhat dilapidated, but sound. It was dry inside, and light enough. As the door closed behind them, Claire felt the change in Castiel. It was enough to throw her arms back around him.

"Daddy!" She buried her face into his chest.

"Hey, baby girl," she heard him say softly as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Look at you, how tall you've got. Jane, I know you've got thousand questions, but can I have a minute with my daughter?"

There was a sound behind her, like someone sitting down heavily. "Sure," Jane said faintly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Claire inhaled deeply, taking in the familiar scent of her father. He wasn't the same as he used to be, had that faint undercurrent of something unidentifiable, something powerful that she knew to be Castiel, but it was still him. "I missed you, Daddy," she whispered, feeling suddenly small.

"I missed you too, baby," he told her.

She pulled away from him, just slightly, looking up. A gentle smile lit his face as he stroked her hair gently. "I can't believe you're here. You're safe." The smile slipped slightly as he dared ask: "Your mom?"

Claire shook her head, her eyes pricking with tears as they met his. "She got sick," she said simply.

He shuddered against her, but it seemed to be the answer he was expecting. Clare doubted he had ever expected to see her again either.

"Okay. Okay. Jane, you've got questions? Ask me first, then you can get to know Cas. Go gentle on him, though: he's more fragile than he lets on."

.oOo.

They stayed to help Jane sort out what equipment and supplies she had, allowing her to continue firing questions as Castiel. He answered to the best of his ability, including telling the two women about the fact that he was cut off from Heaven, having chosen humanity over his brothers. He told them about his draining power, how limited he was. With a little prompting from Claire, he told them about the first time he had fallen asleep and how disorientating he still found waking up, or navigating his own dreamscapes. He described experiencing food for the first time, and how he was growing to enjoy it more as he became less and less able to taste. His eyes shone as he described the first time he had relaxed into a bathtub, which Claire found a bit weird because her dad had always preferred showers. Claire was glad she had stayed for this, because she was certain Castiel was not only uncomfortable discussing himself, but that so much of it was about the consequences of his choice to fight his brothers, it was a painful topic for him and he wouldn't want to talk about it more than once.

When they were done, Castiel pointed Jane, now armed with a list of things she needed, and another of things she wanted for the clinic she was clearly planning, towards Chuck's domain, the supply warehouse, and escorted Claire in the opposite direction.

"This is my cabin," he said, his voice soft, as they approached a relatively unassuming log structure with a little porch. "Unless you wish to be assigned somewhere else?"

"No!" Claire said quickly.

"I would understand," he said, and Claire could hear the reluctance in his voice. "It must be difficult, seeing me in your father's body."

"Castiel, I would much rather stay with you than anywhere else," she assured him. "I meant it when I said I was glad you were safe."

He stared at her, his head tilted slightly in question. "Me? Not your father?"

"You. Dad too, obviously, but even if you were in a different vessel, I would be glad to see you."

He didn't seem to know what to say to that. Realising that she would have to take the lead, having completely confused the angel, she scurried up the steps and pushed open the cabin door.


	3. Chapter 2: First Impressions

After staying a few minutes to ensure that Claire had managed to find places to store the small amount of clothing she still possessed, Castiel pointed out where the mess hall and kitchens were, the lavatories and shower block, and left her to return to his duties about the camp. She teetered with grabbing a shower, but had no clean clothes to wear, no towel and no toiletries anyway. Instead, she decided to take a walk, to acquaint herself with her new surroundings, perhaps meet some of the neighbours. Cas had told her that none of the new arrivals were expected to chip in for a day or two, to allow them time to rest and acclimatise. Not that she had been assigned any particular job, anyway: at fourteen, she was too old to be lumped in with the few kids who had made it this far and were corralled during the day in a kind of day-care-cum-school, but she was also too young to be asked to work. She was at a loose end. So, walking it was.

The camp was in a wood or a forest, shaded by tall trees all around. The fence that had already been there, presumably to keep the summer camp kids in, was being reinforced to keep Croats out. She said hello to several teams of builders as she wandered, introducing herself to the men and women, until she met a small group who were apparently more focussed on the demon issue. At a rear gate that looked as if it led down to some water, they – two men and a woman – were drawing a ward apparently based on a diagram hastily scribbled on a piece of paper the woman was holding. Claire took one look at the pentagram and frowned.

"That's not right," she said, taking a piece of chalk from her pocket (a useful tool for warding campsites against demons; less durable but more portable than spray paint). "Here, these lines need to join up. And this symbol is wrong. It should look like this," (she corrected it with her chalk) "but it would be much more effective if you substituted it for this."

She scuffed out the still-damp spray-painted sigil with the toe of her boot and was about to replace it when all hell broke loose: the men hauled her away, and the woman yelled for Dean before turning and making her opinion of Claire's assistance known.

"Hey, HEY! What's all this about?"

Dean Winchester appeared, jogging along the perimeter of the fence, as handsome as she remembered him. The two men relaxed their grip on her, and Claire darted forward to fill in the missing symbol on the trap before they could stop her again.

"This little bitch is messing up the trap," the woman spat, her expression torn between fury and smugness that Claire had been caught in the act by their boss.

For his part, Dean waved the three of them away and looked at the trap. He then looked over to Claire, his expression shrewd. She doubted that he would remember her, especially since she had grown about a foot since he last saw her, and that her most identifying feature was dulled and tangled under three weeks' worth of dirt. But it wasn't her hair Dean was looking at: it was her eyes. That made sense, really, given she had inherited them from her father: they would be the feature Dean would recognise.

"Knock it off, Risa," he barked at the woman. "The kid's right. Claire Novak, right?"

Claire nodded and stood a little taller under his gaze. "Met your daddy once, on a job we worked together. Good man. Damn fine hunter."

And not one word of it a lie, technically. Claire was impressed. For the single day her father had been back in her life, torn apart from Castiel, he had single-handedly tried to take on a pack of demons in order to protect her and her mother, using the knowledge Castiel had imparted unto him. Knowledge Claire had just used to correct the devil's trap in question.

"He always good at all this Enochian shit," Dean continued, which was stretching the truth now.

"He used to say he had an angel watching over him," Claire said, her eyes dancing. "Said he learned it from his guardian angel."

Dean's eyes sparkled with laughter the rest of his face didn't betray. "I guess if anyone managed to have a guardian angel who wasn't a complete douche-bag, it would be your dad."

"Angels? Seriously? They're not real." Risa seemed certain in her pronouncement.

Dean looked over to her, the merriment not quite fading from his eyes. "Demons and Croats are fine, but you're struggling with angels?"

She gestured expansively with her gun. "Where the hell are they? Why aren't they helping us, if they're real?"

"Because they want this," Claire said before Dean could. "This was prophesised, and we're nothing to them."

Dean's head snapped back to her, his eyes betraying his surprise. She knew what he was thinking; that all her knowledge of angels came from Castiel, and he was one of the good guys. What Dean was clearly forgetting was that when he came to her, Castiel had just been yanked forcibly back to Heaven and tortured because of his closeness to Dean. Zachariah had ripped into his grace in order to re-assert Heaven's authority over him, to return him to the ranks as a dutiful, compliant soldier who answered to them, not to humanity, and certainly not to Dean Winchester. They had left him a bleeding, broken mess, blindly sobbing new oaths of obedience because he had no other choice. That was what Castiel had been when he came to her, so, no; Claire's perspective on angels wasn't all brightness and winged puppies.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, his voice cracking slightly. "They're total dicks. Not just white wings and golden harps. Claire, is there anything else we can do to improve this trap?"

She looked at it critically. "No, not without drawing out an Old Enochian one, with a heptagram, but that's really complicated. I don't think it's worth it. Not right now, anyway."

"Agreed." Dean's tone made it clear that he had seen such a trap before, and knew exactly how much work would have to go into it. "Why don't me and you go check out the rest of the traps on the perimeter, see if there's any more problems?"

Claire nodded silently and fell in behind Dean as he strode away purposefully. Once they were out of sight of the sentry post, he slowed, allowed her to catch up, and matched her stride.

"Nicely done back there," he said, flashing her the shadow of a smile. "I didn't realise you were here."

"I just got here a few hours ago. You're busy, and I'm not important," she said with a shrug.

"Not… Claire, everyone is important. And you've obviously got some bad-ass knowledge in that head of yours if you're drawing Enochian devil's traps."

"It's just bits and pieces," she told him. "Castiel was only with me for a few minutes; I don't know a lot."

"More than most," Dean said. He stopped in his tracks and leaned against a tree, letting his guard down. "More than me, about some things. We… Hell, you're more than old enough: we could use you. Cas could use another pair of eyes, another set of skilled hands to help ward this place, maybe look at putting some Old Enochian traps in when we've got time. We need someone who can help Bobby research a way to protect us against the Croats, cos the demon traps won't stop them. Er, you okay working with Cas?"

She smiled. "Yes, I'm sure I can manage."

.oOo.

She swung by the supply warehouse on the way back into the main camp. Melody, a round-faced black girl a few years older than Claire with grown-out cornrows, was happy to fork over some shower supplies.

"Have you got something clean to get changed into, honey?"

Claire shook her head. "But I was wondering about getting my clothes cleaned."

"Oh, sweetie, that's easy," Melody said with a bright smile. "We've got a Laundromat. I'll show you where to take your clothes later. But for now? I've got some things. They might be a bit big on you, but they'll do."

Melody slung a friendly arm around her shoulders and led her to a larger cabin, a dormitory with ten bunk beds. "I share this with two other girls," she said cheerfully. "Well, three now: Juanita that came in with you is sharing too. There were enough cabins for us to have one each if we wanted, but we like having the company, you know. Being alone these days…" She shuddered.

Claire nodded sympathetically. "I know. I was lucky, my uncle was already here. I'm staying with him."

Melody smiled up at her from where she had crouched at a set of drawers. "That is lucky. Here, try these."

She pulled out a loose, flowing top and a long skirt. "Come find me after, and I'll pin them for you, so they fit better. I'll be back at the warehouse."

.oOo.

Under the lukewarm water of the shower, with the promise of finally being clean, Claire let her mind drift back, for the first time in months, to the fateful day Castiel had come for her, the day that had changed her life and her understanding of the world forever. On the face of it, he had come to save her and her mother because of a promise he had made to her father, nothing more. And that was certainly the foremost thing in his mind; that and the necessity of securing another vessel if he were to perform his assigned duties in guiding the Winchester brothers towards their destiny. He hadn't felt it fair to impose on Jimmy a second time, but it hadn't occurred to him that Jimmy would give himself over freely, knowing what he would face, rather than know that his daughter would never grow up, never have a boyfriend, never fall in love or get married or give Amelia grandchildren.

But that had not been the only reason: Claire had always known it. Castiel actually cared about his human charges, a lot more than he was supposed to. He didn't want Claire or Amelia to perish in the upcoming apocalypse. He particularly didn't want Dean to fulfil the role he had been born to, to be taken by his ruthless eldest brother, Michael, as Claire had been taken by Castiel. Even at the tender age of twelve, Claire had understood that Castiel was in love with the handsome man who had come to rescue them. She also understood how wrong that was for an angel, to love one man above all else, and that Castiel was afraid that he wasn't strong enough to fight for Dean, to fight all of his brothers for the shining but damaged soul that was the Righteous Man.

Claire wondered if Dean knew any of this. Wondered if she should interfere, for Castiel's sake. Wondered if Dean would even accept Castiel, given that he was wearing a male body. Claire wasn't a child any more; she understood about sexuality, and the way Dean had looked at some of the women they had met as they worked left Claire with no delusions about which gender he preferred. But, even so, the depth of Castiel's devotion to Dean was a little terrifying, and something the romantic child in her had craved to understand herself one day. Sometimes, in her wildest dreams, she still hoped to live long enough to understand it, to find happiness with the right person, but most of the time she was realistic: humanity was losing the battle for the planet, and she stood very little chance of meeting The One.


	4. Chapter 3: Second Opinions

The Illinois refugees quickly settled into their new roles in the camp. Dean and Castiel reassigned one of the crews working on the perimeter fence to Jane, to remodel the First Aid cabin as their new clinic, and Melody was reassigned to the clinic as Jane's personal supply officer. Claire approved of this immensely because, she had discovered while bonding with her new friend, before the Croatoan virus had started spreading, Melody had been saving up to go to school to study nursing. Claire was pretty sure that Chuck knew this too, and was keen for Melody to do something she would be well-suited to.

Over the first few days, Claire discovered that while Dean was technically in charge, he deferred a lot to Bobby Singer, a crotchety, wheelchair-bound man with a heart of gold who treated both Dean and Castiel like his own sons. It transpired that he was the one who had assigned tasks to his boys that they still stuck to, months down the line: Dean was responsible for the militia, training any man and woman who was able in the defence of the camp, and in striking out into the field for supplies; Chuck was in charge of said supplies, as Claire already knew; and in what had clearly been a fit of irony, Castiel was in charge of the people themselves. Anything to do with housing and finding the right people for the jobs that needed doing around camp was Castiel's domain. And, somewhat surprisingly, he was good at it.

Bobby tended to hole himself up in the accessible cabin they had transformed for him: it already had its own bathroom facilities (unlike the rest) and a bedroom, but also a large open area that was stuffed with books they had rescued from his home before they fled. A table had been adapted to serve him as a desk for research, and Dean produced a chair for Claire too. Bobby was resistant to this plan at first, but Claire had always been a quick study, even before Castiel's interference, and she now had a head filled with titbits on the supernatural that might have taken Bobby months to discover from reading alone.

At first, their research was almost purely focussed on reinforcing the security of the camp; a task they drafted Castiel for, given his extensive knowledge of warding symbols and millennia of experience in battling the forces of evil. Together, they drew up plans detailing exactly what wards were needed, and where they should be placed.

Claire's days were spent with Bobby, her head buried in books, cross-referencing carefully to ensure that her information was accurate and could be used usefully. Her nights were spent in the cabin she shared with Castiel: it had two rooms, each with a bed, but after multiple nightmares, from all of them, they tended to share the queen-size, curled up together, protecting each other from their own demons and the encroaching winter. Claire considered herself very lucky that she still had her dad, that Castiel had been able to protect him for this long.

.oOo.

The days started to bleed together after a while. The only ones that stood out was when a group went out to gather supplies. Sometimes they brought back stray survivors, sometimes they came back fewer than they had been. Occasionally, one of them was unlucky enough to bring the Croatoan virus back with them after being injured in the field. All the men and women who went out had gotten used to looking for the early symptoms and, about three months after they arrived, Claire saw Dean shoot one of his men in the back of the head, eyes filled with regret. Claire stifled a scream and ran back into Bobby's cabin. The old man asked no questions, only held his arms out to her and given her a little time to compose herself before gruffly insisting they carry on with their work.

That evening, Claire shook, unable to let go and sleep, and it was Castiel who held her rather than her dad. He too had been out in the field (he was horribly proficient with a gun), and had seen it for himself.

"One of my biggest regrets in my choice to leave Heaven is the loss of my healing ability," he confided in her. "It is events such as this that truly remind me what I have lost, when I cannot help my allies."

She couldn't think of anything to say to that, really, so she turned in his arms so that she was facing him, and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him back, reassuring him.

.oOo.

Winter faded into spring, and one day, they managed to bring back news. Sometimes, the radio worked, picking up signals from DC or New York, both of which had inexplicably managed to hold out against the Croats, keeping some semblance of government in the east even though the Midwest had been written off completely and the south and west coast were falling fast. (On days where she was feeling particularly cynical, Claire suspected demonic involvement; possibly keeping some of humanity pure in case Lucifer needed them for some ritual or other.) Dean had come back from a hunt inexplicably angry, and Castiel dragged him off somewhere to calm down. This wasn't an unknown turn of events: Bobby explained that Dean's temper had been on a hair trigger since Sam had said yes, frustration at not being able to save his brother spilling over when something else riled him up, and only Cas could calm him down. Claire, along with the rest of the camp, had seen it on a few occasions; generally when they lost people. The worst until now had been the day they had lost Rufus, but this seemed worse still even though the whole crew had returned, unscathed but subdued.

Dean and Castiel's absence was noticed at the evening meal. Melody very indiscreetly asked Claire if 'Uncle Cas' was with their fearless leader. In that way. Claire wished that the answer was yes, even if she would keep it secret to protect the two men's privacy, but given that she and Cas had slept in the same bed every night since she had arrived, she knew it definitely wasn't the case. So she answered honestly.

"But you must have seen how they look at each other," Juanita, a fellow Illinois refugee and one of Melody's bunkmates butted in. "And how Cas goes, like, extra quiet and distant whenever Dean's in a foul mood."

This was a phenomenon Claire _had_ noticed. She didn't think anyone else would have, though, although even the perceptive Juanita wouldn't know that the same carried over to her dad too. Sometimes Claire thought the weird, uncomfortable, contemplative silences were caused by arguments she couldn't hear, where her dad and Castiel were disagreeing about something.

"No!" Rhonda, another bunkmate declared, breaking into Claire's thoughts. "Dean's not gay. And Cas? He's… Is he anything?"

Claire sighed. "He's… complicated," she allowed.

"You got that right, sister," Rhonda said with a smile. Claire knew that all three of her friends were actually almost fond of Cas: he was always nice to them, in his own way; a little less distant than normal.

"I reckon he's asexual," Tracy, their final roommate mused, and Claire had to bite her lip to stop herself from smiling: she didn't know how right she was. "I mean, he never seems to look at _anyone_, and it's not as if there aren't other good-looking men here, if that's what he's in to.

"Cody Payne?" Juanita suggested, making Tracy blush.

"Come on, Claire: spill," Rhonda demanded. "What's the deal with Cas?"

Claire shrugged. Okay, so she knew, but it wasn't anyone's business but Castiel's. And hopefully Dean's, but she wasn't going to hold her breath.

"I honestly don't know," she admitted. "He's never had a girlfriend, or a boyfriend."

"That you know about," Melody pointed out. "Didn't you say your folks were religious?"

"Yes, but they weren't like that," Claire pointed out huffily. "If God made us the way we are, then He made gay people gay and straight people straight, and everything in between too. If God gives a rat's ass about anything, I'm pretty sure it isn't who we screw."

"Speaking of," Rhonda said, leaning forward on her elbows, "is there anyone you want to screw?"

The other four were all pretty open about themselves, but they were older, and it was easier for them: eighteen-year-old Rhonda and twenty-year-old Juanita were together, but kept it discrete in their room because they liked the atmosphere of the dorm; nineteen-year-old Tracy had her eyes on the slightly older Cody Payne, and Melody, the eldest at twenty, hadn't yet found anyone in the camp who took her fancy. Claire wasn't even fifteen yet, her birthday was a few weeks away yet. And yes, there was someone in camp she wanted, but that was even more complicated than Castiel's relationship with Dean. Quite possibly because it _was_ Castiel's relationship with Dean: she didn't know for sure whether the feelings were hers or not. And he was eighteen years her senior.

Even if he wasn't old enough to be her father, this was either a teenager's schoolgirl crush, or the completely unfathomable depth of emotion of a being who had seen the first fish leave the ocean, who had been _created_ to love. Neither was fair to put on a man who was leading one of the last outposts of humanity, and so she would take this secret to her grave.

"I'm underage," she replied simply.

"Sweetie, it's the end of the world," Melody pointed out; "I'm pretty sure age of consent issues went out the window months ago: you're not exactly a kid, Claire, and the very survival of the human race could depend on our having kids."

Claire shrugged. "There's no-one anyway. They're all too old for me."

And so the girls spent the rest of the evening trying to work out Claire's type, which she tried to keep as vague as possible to throw them off the scent. Her friends could never know, because she could never explain her dilemma to them: they didn't know about Cas. They didn't know who he really was, so they could never know that he had once been inside her (and didn't that sound dirty?) and possibly, maybe, left some feelings behind.

.oOo.

Claire found out what had upset Dean so much later that night, when he crept into their cabin with only the softest of knocks to announce his presence. He didn't so much as bat an eyelid at finding them curled up together, which led Claire to believe that Castiel must have told him.

"I need some advice from you guys," he said, sliding down the wall of the cabin. There was a bottle of whiskey in his hand, which he waved at them almost absently. They both shook their heads as they got up, grabbing the bathrobes Chuck had grabbed from a Costco back in November. "You're the only people with any experience of this."

"Dean, you know I'm Jimmy, right?"

"Yeah, that's kind of the point," Dean replied, setting the bottle aside for the moment. "It's in Europe now."

Claire struggled to parse this comment, but her dad seemed to follow Dean's train of thought just fine. "I know. I heard. I hear a lot these days."

He sat opposite Dean, back against the bed, legs crossed comfortably. Claire joined them on the floor, sitting to her dad's side.

"The virus, Claire," her dad explained. "It's been found in several cities across mainland Europe. It won't be long before it hits Asia and Africa."

"I can't let this carry on," Dean said miserably. "We're not going to win this, there's no way. There's only one thing left, to give us any hope of surviving."

"Dean, you can't," Jimmy said, staring at Dean, who looked away.

"Don't look at me like he does," Dean mumbled.

"You ever think he might have got it from me?" Jimmy pointed out, his tone harsh. "Dean, you _can't_."

"Can't what?" Claire asked. Her dad turned his bright-eyed stare on her in warning, but she felt it was a justified question: after all, Dean had come to both of them, not just him. And he had come to _them_, not to Castiel.

"Oh! You're a vessel?" A pause, then it clicked into place for her. After all, she knew a little something about angels and vessels, and it wouldn't just be down to Dean if it were any old angel. She already knew that Sam was perfectly capable of hosting an archangel without spontaneously combusting, so it stood to reason that Dean was too.

"Michael."

"You're too smart, kid."

"That's not what you said when you wanted me researching," she teased, and was ridiculously glad to get the smallest of smiles from him.

"True. Now, you guys are the only people I know who've said yes and survived to tell the tale. I know Cas said Michael'll turn my brain to jello, but say he doesn't: what's it like?"

"I told you already," Jimmy said softly.

"Comet, yeah."

"It's indescribable," Claire said. "You're part of something so much bigger than you ever realised, swept away by it, and it's amazing and terrifying all at the same time."

"Castiel is so much more than we can possibly understand," Jimmy continued, "but I know this: I said yes twice, and it was because he has a purpose, because this is important, and we're not; not really."

Jimmy frowned and gave a pained groan, massaging his head.

"Dad?"

Jimmy gave a weak smile. "Castiel disagrees."

"Of course he does." Dean's smile was tolerant, his eyes soft. "Cas, I know what you think, but butt out for a few, would you? It's your vessels I need to talk to here. Claire, did it hurt?"

Her eyes moved from the hunched figure of her father to Dean. "Castiel never hurt either of us." Her eyes flickered back. "Not intentionally, anyway. But we both know he's not a typical angel, and he's nowhere near as powerful as Michael. But I can't believe you'd be afraid of a little pain."

Dean gave her a proper smile then. "No, you're right. I just want to go into this armed the best I can be."

"Are you going to do it?" Jimmy definitely sounded as if he was in pain now, drawing their attention completely.

"Cas, knock it off!" Dean yelled, just as Jimmy's eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped sideways onto the floor.

They both watched in horror as black, ashen wings appeared, one across the floor, the other draped over the bed: the vision that haunted both of their nightmares, the one thing neither of them had ever wanted to live to see.

"Daddy?!"


	5. Chapter 4: Fallen

For two days, Claire sat by their side in the clinic. For two days, she watched Melody changing bags, ensuring that the IV and catheter lines were clear; uncertain at first but increasingly efficient. For two days, Jane agonised over what had happened, but ultimately she didn't have the facilities, or the understanding of how envesseled angels worked, to make any real kind of diagnosis. She worried that he had suffered a haemorrhage of some kind; a supposition backed up by the nose-bleed they had suffered at the point Jimmy had collapsed, when Castiel's tattered wings had burned to ashes around them. Jane didn't know if either or both of them would wake up, but the fact they were still breathing was positive, she said.

Claire spent two days blaming Castiel for fighting Jimmy's control and trying to speak when it was her dad's opinion Dean had been interested in. She spent two days blaming her dad for fighting Castiel when the angel clearly wanted to say something he felt was important. She spent two days blaming Dean for putting the two of them in that situation in the first place. Only occasionally did it occur to her to blame Lucifer, who had put Dean in the position of needing to ask in the first place.

For two nights, Dean sat by her side, keeping watch when she dozed. The first night, he prayed to Michael, begging, saying 'yes' over and over, only would he consider helping Castiel and Jimmy in return? The second night, he was silent, his eyes haunted.

On the morning of the third day, hazy blue eyes opened and darted about the room, looking for something before sliding closed again as he turned away from them and wept, openly and bitterly.

"Cas? Jimmy?"

When there was no answer, not even any indication that he had been heard, Dean turned to Claire. She could feel the tears prickling in her eyes, but wouldn't let them fall.

"Claire? Which of them is this?"

She didn't want to tell him. She was in a 'blame Dean' moment.

"Castiel," she said eventually, her voice cracking as she suddenly wondered what could make an angel cry.

"Cas?" Dean moved around the bed and crouched near Cas' head, taking his hand gently. "Cas, what's wrong? What happened to you?"

"Dean?" One broken word was all it took to melt Claire. She would never, never be able to hate these two men, no matter what.

"I'm here, Cas. I'm here."

"Claire?"

"I'm here too," she said, coming to stand beside Dean. She took Castiel's other hand, careful to avoid the IV, as the angel looked up at her. His eyes stood out, an even brighter blue against the red rims.

"I'm alone."

"You're not alone, Cas," Dean said, squeezing Cas' hand tighter and bringing his other hand up to rest on Castiel's shoulder as the angel curled back in on himself. "We're both here."

"That's not what he means," Claire said, her blood running cold as every single implication of that statement hit her. "He's alone in his head: no angel radio, and…"

Dean's head turned slowly, his eyes meeting hers. "Oh, Claire. I'm sorry."

.oOo.

They stuck together like glue, neither of them leaving Castiel's side for any longer than it took to pee. Claire knew that Dean couldn't possibly understand what was wrong with Castiel: even she only had an inkling of what he was experiencing. When he had been with her, for all of five or ten minutes, her head had been filled not just with his tender, broken presence, but the songs sung by his brothers as well. Castiel had heard that music his whole existence, millions upon millions of years; a number so far beyond her comprehension it hurt even to think about it. In a rare moment of openness, a couple of months ago, he had told her that he still heard a whisper of it, in the back of his mind and, even if he was imagining it, both it and Jimmy's steady presence comforted him, kept him tethered to reality.

Humans couldn't really sing in Enochian, but she tried, for him. She held him to her and sang hesitant, translated nursery rhymes because she couldn't manage anything else. Dean cottoned on eventually, and sang tunes Castiel would recognise from his cassette collection. Claire privately thought that while Castiel might be able to recognise the words, the tunes themselves were somewhat beyond Dean, with the peculiar and unique exception of 'Hey Jude'. He had an imperfection after all (aside from occasional assholishness). Jane eventually demanded that Dean stop butchering her beloved Led Zep and from then on, each time Claire's voice refused to shape the harsh Enochian any more, Melody lived up to her name and sang every hymn she could think of (she had been the consummate professional and pretended not to hear what Dean, Claire and Jane had talked about as they discussed Castiel's condition, and she seemed to be taking it well so far. She was willing to help at least, even knowing that he was a possessing entity in a world where such things were always considered evil).

Claire gave up the torturous Enochian translations after a day and joined Melody in her hymns instead, losing herself in the familiar words. They reminded her of countless Sundays at Mass, standing between her parents, which inevitably led to her thinking about her father. She was so consumed by her thoughts that she missed the moment where Castiel picked up the tenor line of _Abide With Me_, his voice quiet at first, but gained in strength, drawing Jane's attention.

"Hey," she said softly from the door of Castiel's tiny, crowded private room. "Welcome back."

Castiel blinked at her. "Thank you," he said, his voice now only a fraction of what it usually was, lacking its usual strength and conviction. "I… how long has it been?"

"Almost four days, man," Dean said. Castiel had to tip his head up to see Dean, who was cradling him to his chest. "You were completely out for two and a half days, then catatonic for the last thirty-odd hours."

Cas looked around slowly, from Dean to Claire, who was sitting at the end of the bed, her legs entwined with theirs, to Melody, leaning against the windowsill. "And you have been singing to me all this time?"

"Pretty much," Jane said. "It was Claire's idea, but they've all taken turns."

"Even Dean? Perhaps I should be thankful I don't recall that."

"Hey!"

Claire laughed, and almost immediately clapped a hand to her mouth: it seemed wrong to have even a moment of happiness, of normality, when her dad was gone. Without uttering a word, Castiel held an arm out to her, and she scooted up, slotting into the familiar embrace, stupidly grateful that he was still willing to do this for her. Distantly, she was aware of Melody pressing a kiss to her forehead and slipping quietly out of the room as she finally let go and cried.

.oOo.

They had no body to burn, no-one else who would understand the necessity for a wake, so achieving closure was difficult. Castiel blamed himself although, once he was able to, he explained to Dean and Claire that the angels had finally slammed the pearly gates, leaving Earth to fend for itself. Once truly, absolutely cut off from everything that made him an angel, what was left of Castiel's grace drained away and his wings burned. The pain Jimmy had felt was not Cas trying desperately to be heard, to dissuade Dean from his planned course of action, but Cas overreaching, trying to find the fine thread that had still connected him to his brothers even after he had chosen to leave.

"The thing I don't get," Dean said, the night Cas was released from the clinic, when they were finally alone, just the three of them, "is why they waited so long before closing up shop. I mean, Zachariah stopped bugging me over a year ago."

Cas, still tired and tucked up in bed, sighed and glanced away. Dean prodded Castiel's foot when he didn't respond.

"I don't know for sure," he said eventually, "but I expect Michael made one last attempt to search for Gabriel, to bring him home before ensuring that Lucifer could never return to Heaven."

"Gabriel?" Dean echoed, clearly not sure he had heard right. "As in the archangel?"

Cas nodded slowly, his eyes coming back to them: both Dean and Claire were sat at the foot of the bed, propped against pillows on the metal bedframe, one either side of Castiel. It was something Claire knew should be uncomfortable, having this gorgeous man who she may or may not be in love with practically in bed with her, but it just seemed _right_ somehow. After spending a night with the three of them spooned on a twin bed in the clinic, both of them clinging to Castiel, not wanting to leave him feeling alone, Claire doubted there would be any weirdness left in this relationship, whatever it was.

"Gabriel took Lucifer's fall badly," Cas told them, fiddling with the edge of the comforter nervously. "They were close, and I don't think Gabriel ever really forgave Michael, or our Father, for casting Lucifer into Hell. He left Heaven only a couple of millennia later."

For some reason, Claire found Castiel's casual reference to the timeframe deeply amusing. One glance at Dean, his forehead tightened into a baffled frown, told her he wasn't quite processing it so readily. She reached out and squeezed his hand reassuringly. He gave her a tight smile and a squeeze in response.

"Do you think Gabriel's hooked up with Lucifer? That we might have two archangels on our hands instead of just one?"

"No." Castiel's response was quick and harsh. He took a breath before explaining: "Gabriel was close to Lucifer, but he did not share Lucifer's view of humanity. Gabriel was always very fond of you as a species. I… I believe Gabriel left because remaining would mean he would be forced to choose a side in the apocalypse; to choose one of our brothers over the other. By leaving, he… side-lined himself. Is that the correct word?"

Dean patted Cas' foot. "Yeah, you got it. So, what, they found him?"

"Perhaps," Castiel allowed. "Perhaps not. I expect we shall never know."

They sat in companionable silence for a minute or so before Dean, brow still furrowed, spoke again: "Cas? Now you're all powered down, does that mean Lucifer will be too?"

Castiel gave him a look. Claire had learned a lot of Castiel's looks over the last six months: this one was his 'humans are ridiculous and exasperating' look, but it soon morphed into something infinitely more patient and understanding as comprehension dawned: he was the only example of angel-kind that Dean had to base suppositions on. "No. My power, as you know, was directly linked to Heaven; something that was designed to ensure my obedience. The archangels were not subject to the same restrictions: they are so powerful that the connection to Heaven is insignificant. My brother is just as dangerous as he has ever been."

.oOo.

When Castiel dozed off, Dean turned to Claire.

"You got anything in that noggin of yours about Gabriel?"

She shook her head regretfully. "It doesn't work like that," she told him. "Castiel gave me knowledge he thought I might be able to use to protect myself and my mom, not anything personal. Not really. Plus, I think having millions of years' worth of memories might break my brain."

There was a soft snort of something resembling laughter. "Yeah, I guess. What do you reckon, though? Did they find Gabriel?"

Claire shrugged. "I suppose it's possible, but whether he went back to Heaven or not, I really don't know. I'm not even sure that Cas knows him well enough to be able to tell you to that: archangels didn't really, you know, mingle with the commoners. At least, that's the impression I've got. But, Gabriel might be fond of humanity, but Lucifer's destroying us. Given the choice, I think I might go home, even if it meant picking a side."

Dean sighed heavily. "Yeah, me too. I did in the end, didn't I? I picked Heaven's side because I had no other choice, so I guess Gabriel might have done the same thing."

"But," Claire said, shrewdly, "it wouldn't hurt to keep an ear to the ground, would it? I mean, he's stayed hidden from Heaven for centuries, so the chances of him having been found are pretty small, and having an archangel on our side might be handy."

Dean flashed her the shadow of a smile. "No, it wouldn't. Keep it on the QT, though: Cas will tell us we're wasting time, and the others would just get excited."

She nodded solemnly, her mind already whirring. Dean seemed to realise, got up and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Goodnight, Claire."

"Night, Dean."

And, for the first time since leaving Pontiac, Claire spent the night with just one other person for company. It was an oddly lonely feeling.


	6. Chapter 5: A New Direction

Two mornings later, just over a week since Jimmy had died, Claire packed Castiel off with Dean for some training exercise or other – Claire didn't know, and she suspected that Dean was making it up as he went along just to give Cas some kind of purpose and prevent him from being alone. She headed over to the library that was Bobby's cabin.

"Hey, kid," Bobby greeted her, glancing up from the dusty tome he was reading. "Good to see you out and about. Dean tells me you're starting a project of your own?"

They had been trying to piece together enough spells and lore to try and recreate Samuel Colt's masterpiece in case Dean couldn't find the original, but Dean had told her last night that he had already talked to Bobby, that the older hunter was on board with them trying to find a powerful new ally if possible.

"Hunting an archangel," she said, pulling every edition of the Bible, Torah and Qu'ran she could find from the bookshelves, just to start out with. "Should be easy, right?"

Bobby gave an amused snort. "Yeah, sounds it. You got _any_ idea where to start?"

She hefted her stack over to the table. "Scripture," she said. "I thought I'd see if I can identify any patterns in Gabriel's behaviour from what we know about him. Or, what we think we know, anyway."

"Sounds good."

With that, Bobby turned back to his own tome. Claire had gotten used to his crotchety mannerisms over the last few months, and was actually smiling slightly at the praise (he hadn't called her an idjit, anyway, which was something). She also liked the way he was trusting her, giving her her own space to work this project, but she knew she would be able to rely on his help if she wanted it.

Days later, though, she was frustrated, wishing she could consult with their best source of information, and something was nagging at her.

"What if this is all just bullshit?" she asked, running her thumb over the array of post-its protruding from the King James.

Bobby looked up at her. "I ain't one to question anyone's beliefs, but I know for a fact there's things wrong in the Bible; Cas told me that ages ago. Meant to ask him to correct it one day, but it never seems like the right time any more."

She growled in frustration and ran her hands through her hair. "Cas said that Gabriel left about two thousand years after Lucifer was cast out," she said, thinking it through. "We've always assumed that was about ten, twelve thousand years ago?"

"Near as Cas could figure it," Bobby agreed. "I'm not sure he remembers exactly how long."

"But that still means that Gabriel left Heaven eight _thousand_ years ago, at the very least!" she groaned. "So, who spoke to Zechariah, and Mary and Joseph two thousand years ago? Who spoke to Muhammad fifteen hundred years ago? _Was_ it Gabriel, or a different angel borrowing a famous name?"

Bobby's eyes met hers slowly. "Well. That puts a whole new twist on things, don't it?"

"What if Jesus wasn't so much the son of God as the grandson?"

"Nephilim? I suppose it's possible. If Gabriel ran away from Heaven, he's not necessarily going to be too worried about God having banned them. That's a bit public for someone in hiding, mind: Jesus got a lot of attention."

Claire grinned suddenly. "That's just one guy, though, and maybe Gabriel thought Heaven wasn't looking any more after so long. But there's stories about nephilim all through the dark and middle ages. Castiel was the first angel of Heaven to set foot on Earth in two thousand years, so where did the nephilim come from?"

"You think Gabriel?"

Claire's eyes danced. "It's possible, isn't it? I'm sure a lot of them will have been hoaxes, but isn't it _possible_ that there were some genuine angel babies we can track?"

Bobby shrugged. "Maybe, but not with the books we've got here, and I've pretty much run into a dead end too." He rubbed his hands together. "We've been sat on our asses too long, kid: what do you say to a field trip?"

Claire froze. "Is it safe?"

Bobby gave her an odd, contemplative look. "About as safe as it'll ever be," he said. "It's been long enough since Lucifer breezed through Sioux Falls that the Croats will have moved on. The biggest problem would be if he's stationed any demons at my place, but I'm planning on using your angel-eyes for that. Assuming they still work, of course."

That was something that hadn't even occurred to her: she had stopped seeing Castiel's grace, but she had assumed that was because it was gone, not because her unique ability might have disappeared too.

"Only one way to find out, I suppose."

.oOo.

Dean was not happy about the plan: he would much rather Bobby and Claire stayed nice and safe in the camp, but Bobby talked him around after promising to take a couple of Dean's best soldiers with him, and the demon blade. Bobby spent some time compiling a list of books he wanted, and things he could think of that might help Claire, grumbling under his breath that it would be a hell of a lot easier with the internet, since a lot of it would be parish records and so forth, from Europe, mostly. Bobby didn't think he had many books that would cover that kind of thing, so he made plans to swing by some other libraries he knew of, including someone he called 'Pastor Jim' who, it transpired, had also played a part in raising the Winchester boys, and kept a superb record of biblically-related paranormal phenomena going back about a thousand years.

Chuck, hearing about the excursion, insisted on coming too, to forage for supplies. This, Dean deemed to be reasonable, and allowed them to take a couple of trucks, since none of the cities they were hitting were all that far away: they might even be done with the whole round trip within a day, provided they set off early enough to make use of the light, and there were no problems. Dean allowed them two, but they were to check in on the CB radio regularly while they were in range.

Castiel clung extra-tight that night, tension radiating from him wordlessly. Claire wasn't sure what was bothering him more; the thought of her being in danger out there, or him potentially spending a night alone in their bed if things took longer than they anticipated. There wasn't much she could say to reassure him: leaving camp was never risk-free, even if they were going to places long-abandoned. She couldn't promise that she would be safe, but she resolved to work as quickly as possible, to try and get it all done in one day. With seven hours of travel planned, it would be difficult, but not completely impossible. She also, with a small smile, planned to speak to Dean, ask if he might keep Cas company if they did end up camping overnight. If he agreed, she might not even push that hard to get back.

Blue Earth was just over two hours' travel from the camp: one hundred and thirty miles of empty road, ending at a ghost town. This, Claire was grateful for: she wasn't looking forward to encountering any Croats, and was hoping that Sioux Falls and Vermillion, their other planned stops, were just as simple. The trucks split: Chuck's crew hit Walmart and Walgreens, while Bobby, Claire, Chuck and their assigned guard, Mike, hit Pastor Jim's abandoned church. Bobby grumbled at Jim's lack of foresight in not having a ramp down to the crypt, meaning that Claire and Chuck ventured into the gloomy depths alone.

"So, what are we really doing here?" Chuck whispered once they were at the bottom of the stairs. "It's not books for Bobby's gun, is it?"

Chuck was pretty much the only other person who she might be able to confide in, but even so, Dean had expressly asked her to keep what she was doing a secret from everyone, even Castiel. So, instead of answering him, she shrugged; a gesture lost to the darkness as she set up the portable lantern.

"Bobby said we were grabbing the library here," she said. "It's supposed to be stuff about Biblical lore mostly, so maybe he's looking for a way to track Lucifer. I mean, an archangel's got to leave a trail, right? They're not subtle, are they?"

Chuck swallowed. Hard. "No. They're not. So, start filling boxes?"

In an hour, the two of them completely dismantled the crypt, finding and boxing up every book, file, folder, even the hunting journal that Jim kept even though he wasn't a hunter himself as such. They swept through the rest of the place, checking the vestry and even the bathroom before they crossed the road to Jim's house and emptied that of lore books too. Claire paused when she reached an upstairs room with a set of bunk beds in it. A faded Led Zeppelin poster adorned one wall, and in the wardrobe, she found a nude calendar from 1995 pinned to the inside. Miss May's dark hair and bright blue eyes were certainly striking, but she felt certain that wasn't exactly what Dean (because the calendar had to be Dean's) was looking at.

With a smile, she carefully removed the calendar and tucked it into the box she was carrying. Maybe Miss May's particular colouring would get Dean thinking, if he wasn't already. Because, mourning or not, Claire had seen how much Dean had doted on Castiel, how much he had worried while Cas was unconscious, how he had held the angel tight and tried to soothe him when he cried.

.oOo.

Another two hour trip, straight down the I-90, landed them in Sioux Falls. Once again, the teams split, reasoning that the more provisions they could grab from these untapped towns, the better. The warehouse crew once again hit the marts, and Chuck steered them to Singer's Scrapyard.

Here, at least, Bobby had the freedom to move properly: before everything had gone to hell, Dean had helped Bobby convert the first floor, making sure that everything was somewhere he could get at it. Every single book that was left was either in his library or the den.

"We didn't have time to grab everything on the last trip," Bobby said as he emptied a bookshelf into the box on his lap. "Not that we knew it was the last trip, of course: we thought we'd have longer to set up the camp before Lucifer unleashed his endgame. We figured he'd wait for Dean to say yes, so we had pretty much all the time in the world. Except it seems the Devil's got a short attention span, or maybe he picked Sam's brain and realised that Dean wasn't going to give up the goods. Sam saying yes pretty much guaranteed that Dean wouldn't."

Claire decided not to tell Bobby about the night her dad had died, about why Dean was there, about the night he had spent praying to Michael not realising it was too late, that Heaven wasn't listening any more. Maybe _couldn't_ listen any more, she still wasn't too clear on that.

Something about this place was making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Maybe it was Bobby's paranoia that Lucifer would anticipate their return and post a guard. They hadn't seen anyone at all when they had pulled up, and the amount of devil's traps in the house meant that they were pretty safe inside. Still…

"Why don't you go take a look around?" Bobby suggested, noting her restlessness. "Check the yard for any demons. Here, take this with you."

He handed her the knife. It wasn't quite right in her hand, but it would do nicely: aside from the supernatural X-ray vision that let her see a possessing entity, Castiel had left Claire with some awesome knife-fighting muscle memory. She had already bested several of Dean's men with a blade a few months back. He had grinned and said it would be interesting to see her fight Cas himself one day.

She circled slowly, checking the outbuildings that Bobby had used for his business until the apocalypse. The uneasy feeling didn't fade, even though she checked each building carefully, scouring for demons or Croats, although she wasn't sure what she would do if she found a Croat: she had a gun tucked into the back of her jeans, and she knew how to use it, but she wasn't a good shot by any means. It just felt unnatural in her hand and, believing she would never leave the camp, she had never bothered to practice beyond the minimum that Dean had asked of her.

She decided to trek through the abandoned cars, just to check that there were no lurking demons. But as she circled back and started to head back to the house, the feeling that her skin was trying to crawl off her body and hide somewhere intensified dramatically. Shuddering, she picked up her pace, her grip on the knife tightening. Every step seemed to take forever when all she wanted to do was get to the relative safety of Bobby's warded-to-the-rafters home, every shadow seeming sinister as she moved through the stacks of wrecked vehicles.

As she finally reached the edge of the junkyard, the loud crack of a gunshot echoed across the property. For a second, Claire felt every muscle in her body freeze in terror before she forced herself to duck down behind a gently-rusting SUV. Taking a breath, she peered around it and finally saw them: two demons, twisting and writhing inside their claimed skins, standing on Bobby's porch. A large, Mike-sized person was lying near the truck, worryingly still. From here, Claire couldn't see any injury, but she couldn't imagine that Mike would just lie there while everyone else was in danger. Chuck was being held by the male demon, a knife to his throat and blood on his right sleeve. Bobby was nowhere to be seen, and Claire assumed he was still inside the house.

Trembling, she assessed her options. She was currently safe, but did they know she was there? How long had the demons been watching them? Were there any others? The knife was a steady weight in her hand, but was all-but useless. There was a possibility of throwing it, a part of the skill Castiel had given her, but once thrown it was pretty much useless. She certainly didn't like the possibility of losing it to the second demon.

The only other thing she could feasibly do involved getting closer. Last time, demons had been a doddle: Castiel had used her hands to smite them, but there was something else helpful in her head: an Enochian exorcism that would send the demons back to Hell temporarily. She took a breath, steeled her nerves, and scurried from her hiding place over to the truck. She nearly lost her nerve when she saw the bullet hole through Mike's head and his dark, staring, blank eyes, but purposely looked away, over to the dark-haired woman who was responsible. Claire could now see the gun in her hand, pointed into the house. She was speaking, but Claire couldn't quite make out exactly what she was saying. Her tone was smug, taunting.

Without any further hesitation, Claire started to speak, the harsh syllables rolling easily from her tongue as if she had spoken the language her whole life. It gave her an immense feeling of satisfaction when the two demons stumbled and the man released Chuck, who scurried away, his eyes wide. Chuck had never been meant for this kind of life: the angels had screwed him over just as badly as anyone and more than most. Claire stood, held out a hand to the prophet as she continued uttering the exorcism. She allowed herself a brief flash of satisfaction when Chuck reached her, standing behind her and clinging to her hand in terror. She had saved him and, given that the demons were on their knees, crippled by the pain of the rite, Bobby was all-but safe too.

And then, in that moment when Claire had allowed herself to feel just a little proud of her quick-thinking actions, the woman lifted the gun in a trembling hand and squeezed off a shot.

Seconds later, twin streams of smoke poured from the two vessels and the demons disappeared rapidly into the ether. Claire rushed over, dragging Chuck behind her. Neither of the two were breathing, the man's head lolling at an unnatural angle, but it was the sight beyond the door that was the true horror. Bobby was slumped in his chair, a sawn-off clutched loosely in his hand and a dark stain blooming across the chest of his flannel shirt.


	7. Chapter 6: A Journey of Discovery

_A/N: __POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING: all activity is off-screen. See the end notes if you're concerned._

_Apologies for being late with this chapter. I have been (and still am) ill and haven't been online. I also haven't written anything new, so it's unlikely that the next chapter will be ready by Friday._

* * *

><p>Claire wanted to curl up in a ball and wait for any lurking Croats to find her. But Chuck was wounded; he needed her. Castiel, back at Camp Chitaqua, needed her. Dean needed the information from the books they had collected, and Claire was now their only researcher. She tried not to think that the fate of the world might rest on her either tracking down a rogue archangel who might or might not still be on Earth, or managing to produce a gun, from scratch, that was capable of killing a different archangel. Because that was just too much pressure.<p>

It turned out, as she relieved Chuck of his shirt, that he had been clipped by the same bullet that had ended up in Mike's skull. The wound was clean – a through and through that would heal up in time. She bandaged it tightly and hefted the last few boxes into the truck.

Once she was done, with Chuck lifting the last of the boxes up to her, their attention turned to their fallen friends. Claire knew that Dean would want to burn Bobby himself, to have that sense of closure that she never had with either of her own parents, but there was no way she would be able to lift Bobby by herself, let alone Mike, who she could not leave if they were taking Bobby: that implied that he wasn't as important as Bobby had been and that just wasn't fair. But could she bring herself to leave them here to the mercy of the elements?

She jumped back down, eyes riveted on Mike. As she approached him, Chuck nodded his head and crouched at Mike's head, sliding his hands under his armpits.

"Come on, Claire. Before I decide I'm in too much pain."

If Chuck was willing to try when he had a hole in his arm, Claire couldn't really not help him. Steeling herself, she grabbed Mike's thighs and, on the count of three, lifted. Her muscles protested, but she ignored them: they had to do this.

.oOo.

Loading four bodies took its toll on both of them: Claire's legs and arms were screaming at her by the time they got Bobby to the truck, and Chuck was pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. The bandage around his arm was soaked through with blood, and Claire had to take the time to re-dress it before they set off. Chuck pushed her to the driver's door.

"I can't drive!"

"You're going to have to," Chuck ground out, clutching his right arm protectively to his side. "I can't. It's easy, really; I'll talk you through it."

She could do this. She could totally do this. This one last thing. She climbed up into the wrong seat and shifted an inch or so forwards so she could reach the pedals. She gripped the steering wheel tightly as she waited for Chuck to get in beside her. She didn't even realise how rapidly she was breathing until Chuck pointed it out.

"Nice and slowly," he said, his voice somehow calm. "Deep breaths. That's it. Okay, reach out and turn the key."

.oOo.

Turned out driving was easy, on an empty highway. All she had to do was remember which pedal made the truck go, and which made it stop, and not to apply too much pressure to either but go gradually. Chuck used the CB radio in the truck to contact the other team and tell them to head straight back, not to bother with Vermillion. They were both glad they were out of range of the camp, because there was no way either of them wanted to have that conversation with Dean over a radio.

Chuck directed Claire back, navigating her efficiently even though he was struggling to keep his eyes open. Night had fallen by the time they rolled in to the camp, Claire inching the truck forward uncertainly, wary of the sudden obstacles in her path. There was commotion at the unexpected arrival, bringing people running. Dean and Castiel were shoulder to shoulder, their expressions tight, pinched as they locked eyes with Claire. In that moment, back with her family, safe in the compound, everything from the last few hours caught up with her: choking sobs forced their way up her throat and her eyes burned with unshed tears. The truck door opened and strong hands lifted her from the cab.

"Claire?" Castiel's voice was filled with concern as he folded her into a tight embrace. "What happened? Are you injured?"

She shook her head, not able to make her throat form any words. She clung to him, trying desperately to get herself back under control. She had lived through so much already, lost both her parents and survived; she would survive this too: she was stronger than that. And she needed to tell Cas and Dean what had happened. She needed to apologise for being too slow, for leaving Bobby when she knew something was wrong, for failing them all by letting him get killed. Castiel held her tightly, his hands stroking soothing circles on her back as she took deep breaths, assuring herself that she was safe here, in his arms, that he would always look after her.

From the back of the truck, she heard orders snapped, swiftly sending people off to construct a funeral pyre. Too many of them were too well-versed in doing it; it was like second nature by now. Then, an outraged shout from Dean:

"What the _fuck_? Why the hell is she here?"

Suddenly, Dean was behind her. Chuck had already been whisked away by Jane, leaving Claire the only survivor present.

"Do you know who she is?"

She whirled on him, righteous anger suddenly subsuming the mind-numbing terror. "No, I don't, and I don't think you do either. That's the body of some poor woman who got jumped by a demon."

Dean actually took a half-step backwards, the fury on his face fading a little as he realised she was right.

"We couldn't leave them," Claire continued, fighting for just enough calm to get her point across. "They're vessels. It wasn't their fault."

"She's right, Dean," Cas said calmly. "No vessel can be held accountable for the actions of the possessing entity. You of all people should know that."

Dean's fist impacted on the truck door. "Dammit!"

.oOo.

Dean carried Bobby's body to the pyre himself. His face was stormy as they set the thing ablaze and watched the flames dance and begin to consume the four bodies. Claire had no doubt at this point that he was blaming himself for not going with them, but that would have been a truly terrible plan. She stood with him and Cas, but she wasn't surprised when Castiel squeezed her shoulder before grabbing Dean's elbow and steering him away from the crowd. Jane immediately stepped in to take Castiel's position, twining her fingers through Claire's reassuringly.

"Do you want to come back with me tonight?" Jane whispered as the crowd started to disperse about quarter of an hour later.

Claire shook her head. "I just want to go home," she said, knowing how childish she sounded as she said it, but she couldn't bring herself to care any more.

She turned and trudged back to the empty cabin. Any other time, she would have been glad of the empty bed, because it would mean that Dean and Castiel had finally seen sense, but tonight it was something much darker. Claire didn't know what Castiel did or said to Dean when he was in one of these moods, but she was fairly sure tonight was going to be unpleasant for both of them.

Wishing for Castiel's warm, comforting presence for herself, she shed her bloodied clothing, pulled on her pyjamas, slid into the cold, too-big bed and closed her eyes, hoping for sleep to claim her sometime before morning.

.oOo.

She jerked awake when Castiel stumbled in.

"Cas?"

"Go back to sleep, Claire," he said. His voice was gentle, but there was a peculiar note in it; something tired, pained. At first, she sleepily put it down to him having been comforting Dean, but Cas was moving strangely as he started to shed his clothing.

"Cas, are you okay?"

"I… I am fine."

That had her sitting up, staring at him in the dark. "Bull. Tell me."

"Claire…"

She reached out and snapped the light on, making them both blink. Castiel was hunched over and refusing to meet her eyes. His lip was split and still bleeding slightly, red marks disappeared under the collar of his shirt that Claire realised would be hickeys come morning and there was a dark mark on his left wrist that was on its way to being an impressive bruise. She stared for a moment before getting up and approaching him carefully. He pressed his back to the wall, flinching as he did so.

"Cas," Claire said, keeping her voice deliberately gentle as she reached out slowly, "did Dean do this to you?"

"No, I…" He seemed to realise she wouldn't believe anything he came out with and he flushed with shame.

"Can I see?" She gestured to his injured wrist and he nodded slowly, allowing her to take his hand. She pushed the sleeve back to show the extent of the bruising. She realised with something akin to horror that, on the back of his arm, she could see four perfect fingertip bruises and a thick line on the other side that would have been caused by Dean's thumb. The flesh was darkening rapidly, but nothing felt broken. Still, it would need a cold compress, which would mean a trek to either the lavatory block or the showers.

"Okay, we can deal with this," she said. "I'll go out for some cold water once I've seen everything. Will you show me your back, Castiel? It's obvious you're hurting there too."

He sighed and started to unbutton his shirt with shaky fingers. It wasn't even done up right to begin with, she realised, which meant it had been removed and put back on hastily, without care. This was another thing that, at any other time, she would have been ecstatic about.

As he slipped the shirt off and turned, though, she swore vehemently. Life at camp, especially spending so much time with Bobby, had taught her some vocabulary her parents would have been appalled at. Already-darkened bruises drew stripes across his back in a suspicious, log-cabin-spaced pattern. There were also some crescent-shaped wounds on his right shoulder that were oozing blood slowly. She realised with a start they were inflicted by fingernails. Dean's nails. She was certain they weren't deep, but they would need disinfecting and dressing. There was a medical kit in the bag she had taken away with her that would suffice, as long as this was it.

"Cas, can you sit on the bed? I'd like to get a better look at your shoulder."

Cas shuffled across the room to comply, but as soon as he sat, he gave a gasp of pain and tears sprung to his eyes.

"Okay, Cas," she said, her eyes wide as the implications struck her. "Why don't you lie on your side instead? You'll be more comfortable like that."

Once he did, she pulled the covers over him gently. "I need to get Jane," she said firmly. He shook his head vehemently, and she stroked his cheek soothingly (with an accompanying flashback of him doing that to her father with her other hand). "I know, but you need her help, and she won't tell anyone. She's a doctor. Just stay here. I'm only going across the yard."

She didn't want to leave him, she really didn't. He was trembling, obvious even under the covers. She pulled her boots on in silence, but as she reached the door, she heard him whisper:

"I forgot I wouldn't heal."

She whirled back around, her brow furrowing. "You… you mean, you let him do this to you?"

This time he definitely didn't meet her eyes.

"I'm going to want an answer sometime," she told him, coming back to kiss his forehead. "You need to talk to me. But not now. Now, we work on getting you better."

She closed the door quietly, hurried over to the clinic, where Jane lived, and roused her. She tried to keep calm as she explained exactly what she thought had happened, envying Jane the moment where she slipped into her detached, doctor mode. Claire wanted one of those – she had barely held it together for Castiel, and she was worried that he would become upset if he saw how angry she was on his behalf.

Claire carried some supplies back to the cabin for Jane, then excused herself to give them some privacy – to give Castiel some privacy. She found herself barging into Dean's cabin. The place reeked of alcohol and something she didn't recognise but realised was probably sex. Dean himself stumbled to his feet as she invaded his space, knocking a bottle of whiskey over as he did so.

"Claire, I…"

She punched him, throwing all her strength behind it, and he staggered backwards, tripping over a discarded boot and falling on his ass.

"Don't you fucking _dare_ make excuses," she hissed at him, feeling the adrenaline flood her veins. "There is absolutely _no_ excuse for what you've done. I don't care that he consented. I don't care that it isn't the first time he's let you use him like that. He isn't the same as he was, and you are never to lay a _finger_ on him again, or I will take great pleasure in executing you myself. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

Staring up at her with huge, drink-blown eyes, Dean nodded miserably.

"You don't deserve him, you know."

His eyes slid from hers and he scrambled backwards to lean against his bed. "I know. And he doesn't deserve a piece of crap like me."

Claire refused to feel sorry for him in that moment. She had long-suspected that Dean's inferiority complex was a major factor in keeping him and Cas apart, but right now she couldn't help but agree. Castiel was far from perfect, but he was a very good entity; much better than most people.

"I mean it, Dean; I won't hesitate."

"I believe you."

* * *

><p><em>Trigger warning: Consensual but very rough sex with neither party in their right mind, resulting in injury.<em>


	8. Chapter 7: Back to Reality

Claire spent the rest of the night curled facing Castiel, holding his right hand (the only part of him she felt safe touching). He slept fitfully, dosed up on just enough morphine to take the edge off of the pain and relax him. She didn't sleep at all: every time he so much as twitched, she was on high alert. Was he in too much pain? Was he having nightmares about what had happened?

Jane returned as the sun rose, before the rest of the camp started their day, with some painkillers, sleeping pills, various creams, coffee, porridge, and a box of the books she and Chuck had brought back from Blue Earth.

"I figured you wouldn't want to leave here today," Jane said when Claire eyed the box suspiciously. "Cas will probably sleep until noon at least, and you should try to concentrate on something else."

She went on to discuss the medication she had brought for Castiel, and what Claire should do to care for him. She left with a promise of bringing some soup later for them both to eat.

With a sigh, Claire pulled the breakfast towards her and ate mechanically. Once done, she glanced over to the sleeping angel before flipping open the box. She felt a surge of affection at the pen and paper she found on the top, and set about cataloguing the contents, to see if there was anything of use in tracking Gabriel. Or, she realised with a horrible lurch, building a version of Colt's gun: that project was hers too now. As if she knew anything about firearms, beyond the very basics of how to shoot and clean them. Maybe, if she could get the right spells together, someone else would be able to build it for her: someone like Dean.

Even thinking his name put her into a foul mood. She pushed the pad of paper away from her angrily and resisted the urge to throw something only because the documents were potentially both delicate and invaluable, and the crockery from breakfast would smash and wake Castiel.

As it turned out, her consideration was needless.

"Claire, what's wrong?" Castiel's soft voice asked from the bed.

She sighed and turned to look at him. He was bleary-eyed and tousle-haired, blinking sleepily at her.

"Don't worry about me," she said. "I'm just frustrated. I wish I hadn't let you go with Dean last night. I wish I had realised before what was going on. I wish you'd _thought_. And I'm really glad I punched him last night."

"You did _what_?" He moved to sit up, winced abruptly and settled back onto the bed. Claire pushed herself up from the table and crossed to the bed.

"He deserves a lot more," she said firmly. "He shouldn't get away with treating anyone like that, even when you could heal yourself. Now, let me have a look at your shoulder and back: Jane said I should make sure everything is starting to heal up, and there's painkillers for you to take if it's too much."

He lay on his front helpfully, although she could see the tell-tale redness of his neck and ears that said he was not entirely comfortable about this. It was about as awkward a situation as it got, but they could get through this. She cared too much to let a little embarrassment get the better of them.

Carefully, she peeled the dressing from his shoulder. The crescent-shaped wounds had stopped bleeding at some point during the night and were scabbed over and bruised-looking, but not red or hot to the touch. She rubbed some of the tea tree cream in, explaining to Castiel what she was seeing and doing. He seemed pleased they were using a natural(ish) product to treat him, rather than chemicals. The arnica for the black stripes over his back received a similar reception, and he started to tell her about the history of herbal remedies to distract himself as she massaged it in, because the morphine had worn off and he was squirming with discomfort as she worked.

Jane arrived as Claire was finishing rubbing cream delicately into Castiel's wrist. The doctor looked pleased to find Cas awake and lucid. She had a flask of soup, three bowls and enough bread to share between them. She also had an inflatable ring that would make sitting slightly less of an ordeal for Cas. Claire cleared off the table and they helped him up and over so that he could eat properly. Jane made Cas swallow two Vicodin pills with his soup, something he was less happy about until they kicked in. Then he couldn't care less that they weren't natural; he just enjoyed their effects.

After the meal, Claire sloped off to Bobby's cabin, allowing Jane to inspect Castiel's other injuries in complete privacy. She was all for getting over their mutual squeamishness but, for now, there was a boundary she would happily leave to Jane to cross. She found Chuck at Bobby's, his arm in a sling and directing a couple of his staff in unloading boxes from the truck she had driven back. She decided to give them a hand, stacking Bobby's lore books together, Pastor Jim's collection of historical weirdness on the other side of the room, and miscellany in the middle for now. She paused when she flipped open a box to find something she wasn't expecting at all: the books looked like modern paperbacks. Fiction.

"What are these?" she demanded of Chuck, picking one out. It was definitely fiction: a book called 'Supernatural: Mystery Spot'.

Chuck looked embarrassed. "They're mine," he admitted, flushing. "The ones I wrote. Bobby insisted; said he had a hunch they'd be useful somehow. I don't even know why he had them: it's not like he doesn't – didn't – know all this already."

Claire flicked through a few pages, and the names of the main characters jumped out at him. Suddenly, the books made a certain kind of sense: they had been written as fiction, but actually weren't.

"These are the gospels, aren't they?"

Chuck nodded miserably. "The published ones, yeah."

"There's unpublished ones?"

"A butt-load," Chuck told her. "There were some stories that just weren't right for publication for one reason or another, like the prequel to that one, and, of course, everything that happened after Dean went to Hell. My publisher went bust right after the last one was printed, so the readers never met Cas. Thank goodness, really: the fandom was bad enough with slash fic before; they would have gone absolutely nuts over him."

Claire's grip on the book tightened: she knew what slash fic was from the Harry Potter fan-fiction she had read before everything had gone wrong. The idea of teenage girls writing really bad sex stories about Castiel and, she assumed, Dean was too horrifying for words, especially right now. Then another thought shoved its way into her head: who the hell were the slash writers shipping, if there was no Cas? No, no, she really didn't want to think about it, because that was just gross.

"I had an investor," Chuck continued, not noticing Claire's reaction: he was staring into space. "Some Scandinavian guy with one of those really weird long names. He was a big fan, was willing to give me enough capital to start self-publishing. He was excited about the whole apocalypse storyline." Chuck sounded bitter now, and darkly amused.

Claire snorted. "I bet he's not any more. Your apocalypse sucks ass."

Chuck shrugged. "It would have made a great plot if it actually was fiction, though. Post-apocalyptic, dystopian stuff sells. Hollywood loved it."

Claire steeled herself and plucked the books labelled '#1' and '#2' from the box. She shrugged at Chuck's disbelieving expression. "Bobby's instincts are – were – normally good. I owe it to him to find out."

And she owed it to herself and Castiel to find out as much as possible about the man Dean Winchester had been before the apocalypse, back when all he was was a hunter and big brother to Sam.

.oOo.

Jane was waiting for her when she returned with the two Supernatural books and a box from Bobby's house. She left with a smile and a curious glance at the two loose books.

"How are you feeling?" Claire asked, dumping the box next to the table.

"The painkillers are nice," Cas said with a spacey smile. "And Jane was kind to me. She says I'll be okay in a few days."

"That's good news. Do you want to sleep a little more?"

Cas shook his head, appearing oddly child-like as he smushed his face into the bed with each turn of his head. Claire wondered just how powerful the Vicodin was.

"Jane says I should drink some more water. She says it's important."

Claire smiled indulgently and poured a glass from a jug on the table. She took it to him and helped him to drink around half of it before setting the glass down on the cabinet beside the bed. Cas squirmed on the bed, burrowing back under the covers.

"Maybe I will have a little sleep now," he mumbled, his words slurring. Claire pressed a kiss to his forehead and headed back to the table and her books, opening the box of Bobby's things and, with a sigh, began to catalogue the books, flipping through their contents briefly and setting aside any she couldn't read for Cas to look at when he was feeling better.

.oOo.

Claire passed out early and spent another night carefully holding Castiel's hands. She woke the next morning feeling a little better about things. Cas was blinking lazily at her.

"Claire, why do you care so much about me?" he asked softly. "I took your father from you. Three times."

She thought, because he was absolutely right: there was no logical reason for Claire to have any affection for Castiel at all, after all he had put her and her mother through. That said:

"You saved me and my mom when the demons came for us. You saved my dad's life. He begged you to take him. It wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault, ever. I remember what you went through when you got dragged back to Heaven. And I remember that you gave him back to me, for months."

He scrambled back from her, right to the edge of the bed, his eyes wide. "You remember that?"

She nodded wordlessly.

"I tried so hard to keep it from you," he whispered, his voice cracking.

"I know."

"I promised your father I had kept it from you."

She reached over and cradled his face between her hands. "It's okay, Castiel. I know you didn't mean for me to know, but they hurt you so badly. It's okay. It's honestly okay. I'll tell you what else I remember: I remember that you cared about us, enough to defy Heaven to keep your promise. I remember how much affection you had for Dad. I know how much you still grieve for him. And I am pretty certain that I wouldn't be here right now it if weren't for you. Mom and I wouldn't have known enough to get out when the Croats came. We wouldn't have known how to survive, how to ward against the demons who roamed the countryside, looking for stray humans. We definitely wouldn't have known to come here. You gave me the knowledge to survive this, Cas, and I can never thank you enough for that."

There were tears in his eyes. She swept them away gently and kissed his forehead. "Now, how are you feeling this morning?"

"I ache," he said, his voice still rough, "but the pain is not as great."

"You want to grab a shower?"

"Yes, very much." He sat up gingerly, and winced. "The human body is, on some levels, disgusting."

Claire laughed. "Yeah, it sure is. You should be grateful you took Dad back rather than sticking with me. Come on, take one of your pills, and maybe after washing up, we can get some breakfast?"

It was still early out – the sun was barely up and, even with the delay of a shower, they were some of the first into breakfast. This was probably a good thing: it meant that Cas wasn't overwhelmed by the number of people, especially given his absence the day before. It was also obvious to Claire that he was struggling to sit for any length of time on a normal seat, even with the painkillers. Because of that, she didn't hang around after they had eaten, and dragged him back to the cabin and set him to work on the books she couldn't read. Within an hour, her catalogue list had been added to, with Castiel's neat, precise writing (so unlike Jimmy's messy scrawl) detailing both the given name and a translation of the title, along with a rough guide to the contents within.

He picked up the last book on the table.

"Claire?"

It was the first Supernatural book. He was frowning at it, as if trying to determine why it was there.

"Oh, that. Apparently Bobby had a hunch it would be useful. We brought the whole series back, but Chuck says there's more that never got published."

Cas frowned. "In general, Bobby Singer's instinct are to be trusted, but… I am uncertain about this: Chuck's gospels are not the most accurate portrayals and, as you say, they do not catalogue every part of Sam and Dean's lives. There are large periods missing, and Bobby may have been thinking of something that has not been printed. That said, perhaps you might see something in the gospels to assist you in your research that I did not when I read them."

She shouldn't have been surprised that Cas had read them, she supposed. The books were the writings of a prophet, after all.

"It might also be beneficial for you to understand the events that led up to the apocalypse," he continued, more softly. His thumb was running along the edge of the crisp pages absently, and Claire took it from him gently.

"I'll read it," she assured him.

.oOo.

They relocated to the library for the rest of the day, and Claire made good use of the fact that Cas wasn't really fit to do anything else to have him catalogue the books in the languages she couldn't read (he had implanted her with an innate knowledge of Enochian, Latin, ancient Greek and, for some reason, German, but everything else was beyond her), while she worked on Pastor Jim's mountains of manuscripts.

Chuck popped in around midday.

"Hey, missed you yesterday, Cas. It's good to see you getting back in the saddle. It's always harder when it's someone close to you."

Cas looked baffled, and it took Claire a second to work out what Chuck meant: someone had covered for him yesterday.

"We're getting there, aren't we, Cas? Bobby was good to us both. How about you: is your arm okay?"

Chuck grimaced. "Jane says it'll heal up just fine, eventually. Apparently carrying dead bodies isn't good for bullet wounds. Who knew?"

Claire lightly stamped on Castiel's foot as he opened his mouth to answer the prophet. Oddly enough, he understood what she had done, which amused her immensely: someone had taught him what treading on someone's foot meant, but not how to recognise a rhetorical question.

"I am pleased to hear you were not more seriously injured," Cas said. "I… I needed to do something to help today."

"I hear you," Chuck said. "Dean's just the same: you missed his crew heading out last night. Something about Kansas City still being clean: he wants to find out why."

Claire felt something inside her relax: without even realising it, she had been on edge, looking out for Dean all morning. Knowing he wasn't in camp meant that he couldn't harm Cas right now. Because she hadn't decided what to do when Cas eventually went back to training and field missions, with Dean. She couldn't protect him forever (and wasn't that backwards?), and she knew that even after everything he had done, Cas would not stay away from Dean. Cas still didn't blame Dean for his injuries, or realise why what Dean had done was so wrong.

"Probably demons, like DC," she muttered.

"But why?" Cas said. "The rest of the Midwest has been overrun: why leave Kansas City free from the Croatoan virus? It has no strategic value for the demons."

Chuck gave Cas a wry smile. "That's what Dean said too. That's why he figured it was worth a look."

Cas was looking more thoughtful than usual. "It still puzzles me as to why the demons have saved some areas. There is some value in a pure human sacrifice, but I cannot think what Lucifer would need with such a ceremony. They are generally to appease the pagan gods. I cannot think of any other circumstance under which a possessed human would not suffice."

"Well, that's a cheerful thought," Chuck grumbled: "we're utterly worthless, instead of just mostly worthless. Way to lift the mood."

Cas seemed to realise his error. "My apologies," he said, not quite meeting Chuck's eyes. "I am still learning how to gauge when such observations are appropriate. It troubles me that there does not seem to be a real reason for the demons' actions in keeping certain areas free from Croats, and I am glad that Dean is trying to find an answer."

Chuck placed a gentle, almost fatherly hand on Cas' shoulder. "It's okay. Sometimes I forget you're not used to humans. Sometimes I just remember the guy who cared enough about humanity that he tried to stop the apocalypse almost solo; the guy who stood in front of an archangel to protect a prophet."

Cas swallowed, hard, looking… was that 'embarrassed'?

Chuck squeezed gently. "And sometimes I still have nightmares about finding _this_ in my hair."

He released Cas and tugged a thin leather thong from under his shirt. On the end was what looked suspiciously like a tooth.

Cas looked at it curiously before reaching out to touch it. Almost as soon as his fingertips touched it, however, he recoiled as if burned.

"This… this was Jimmy's?"

Chuck nodded and tucked it away. "I think of it as yours, but yeah. It reminds me that there are still good people in the world; someone who was willing to sacrifice his life to save me. It also reminds me that no matter what crap we get thrown at us, we need to fight for what's right, no matter what the cost."

Claire suddenly realised that she was eyeing where the tooth had disappeared under Chuck's shirt. "I… I don't want to know, do I?"

Chuck snorted with something resembling laughter, but had an edge of darkness to it. "No, you really don't. Be glad that 'Lucifer Rising' never got published: it's far too… explode-y." He sighed. "The publishers would probably have made me cut that part anyway. I only put it in because it was cathartic to be able to write something I'd actually witnessed for real; something that wasn't a vision. Even if it was, you know, that, because it was something that honoured someone who deserves recognition of what he did."

Castiel was definitely looking embarrassed now: he was blushing. "I did what I had to do."

Claire got up and hugged him. "And that's exactly why I don't hate you," she whispered in his ear. "It's why I still have faith that we can win."

.oOo.

They worked through until sunset, when Jane appeared with some stew and a sour expression. She scolded them both for working themselves too hard: especially Cas.

"You aren't running on grace any more, Castiel," she said sternly. "Your body can heal itself, but it can't conjure the necessary lipids, amino acids or energy from nothing. You need to feed it."

Chastised, he set down the latest dusty tome and took the bowl she forced under his nose.

"Same for you, young lady: you're still growing, you need to eat."

Claire nodded obediently, already shovelling the mediocre stew into her mouth.

"I am sorry, Jane," Cas said after a couple of mouthfuls. "I don't believe either of us realised the time. Claire's research could be vital in our efforts to combat Lucifer and thus stop the Croatoan virus."

The doctor sighed. "Don't think I don't know that, but Claire can't research effectively unless she's properly nourished. And neither can you. I'll be back here in an hour, and I want to find you gone. Rest is vital too."

"Yes, Jane," they both said meekly.

They both ate quickly after she left, and made sure the library wasn't left in a mess. Bobby might have kept it looking reasonably chaotic, but everything had its place. He certainly wouldn't have accepted dirty bowls left lying around, so they returned them to the kitchen before retiring to their cabin. Cas settled down with an ancient Sumerian text he thought held some promising spell-work, and Claire, after a little needling, cracked open 'Supernatural' and began reading about the night that changed the Winchesters' lives forever.

The trouble with having a cabin in such a prestigious location was that as soon as there was any kind of activity in the main yard, such as a team coming home, the furore disturbed what little tranquillity they had left in the world. Sam and Dean had just uncovered the case their father had been working on before his disappearance when the lights and shouting jolted her out of Jericho, California, and back to camp (realising just how tired she must have been the previous night, not to have heard them leave).

Dean and his crew were piling out of the truck, as were two women Claire had never seen before. It still wasn't altogether unheard of for the crews to pick up strays, but these two weren't the usual: they were scanning their surroundings carefully, shotguns held tightly. The younger one, the blonde, nudged the older when her eyes swept over the porch Claire and Cas were standing on. She didn't seem hostile: on the contrary, she was appraising and faintly amused.

"Cas, hey, Cas!" Dean yelled, gesturing for the angel to join them. He moved to comply and Claire followed closely behind him. Dean saw and said nothing, but Claire could see something flicker behind his eyes.

"Cas, can you hook Ellen and Jo up with a cabin for a few days? They're staying to work on the Kansas City case."

"Of course, Dean," Cas said readily before turning to their guests. "It is an honour to finally meet you. Claire, would you rouse someone from the warehouse and acquire some sheets for the Harvelles?"

Claire nodded and with a hard look directed at Dean, warning him to keep his distance, she jogged away up the track to the warehouse. Dean clearly knew the two women and Cas knew of them: would she read about these two in the books? Were they fellow hunters? And just what was going on in Kansas City?


End file.
